Such intensity. Fifteen wild Decembers....This is a woman of deep feeling, someone who loves deeply, someone with a loyal and faithful heart. May she be reunited with her true love one day in heaven. ❤
...i'm thankful that she tried her hand at writing that eternal gift of a novel for mankind to cherish...had she not died young at age 30, she might have been as prolific at poetry as that other famous emily across the atlantic who was just 12 years her junior...
That's the most wonderful interpretation of an Emily Bronte poem I've ever heard! Thank you very much - I could listen to it over and over againg... really beautiful!!!
Cold in the earth-and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave? Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart forever, ever more? Cold in the earth-and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering! Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong! No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy, Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. Then did I check the tears of useless passion- Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine. And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?
Emily Bronte is up there with Christina Rossetti for me; absolutely stunning Poetry writers! Thank you for taking the time to make this wonderful piece.
EB is my favourite. Try her _Song,_ another remembrance poem ...Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound [grave], And murmur, summer-streams-- There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.
Such a dark, dark poem, what was the state of Emily's mind? I look at Branwell's portrait of her, and it seems to me that she is locked into her own dark world.
So do I. I love her poetry I don’t know if you have ever visited the Parsonage at Haworth where they all lived? If not and you ever get the opportunity please go. I’ve visited many times over the years. I’m 82 years old now. In a downstairs room there is a chaise longue on which, it is said, that Emily died.
Oh, please, could you do the others Bronte poems? my favorite is F. de Samara to A.G.A, or "Light up thy halls", where imprisoned Fernando kills himself
Remembrance BY EMILY BRONTË Cold in the earth-and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave? Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart forever, ever more? Cold in the earth-and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering! Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong! No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy, Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. Then did I check the tears of useless passion- Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine. And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?
She was great...the best I have heard...but she had got to have done it with a faint Irish accent...such as all the Bronte girls had...the English RP mob..totally under play that fact..
Charlotte's accent was described by her friend Ellen Nussey as alternating between Irish (like her father) , Cornish (like her mother and Aunt Branwell) and broad Yorkshire like her surroundings. Emily was an even greater mimic.
